Nep. Thus he tricks me at once both of wife and fortune, without the least want of either. Bates. Well said, friend Whittle! but it can't be, it sha'n't be, and it must not be-this is murder and robbery in the strongest sense, and he sha'n't be hanged in chains to be laughed at by the whole town, if I can help it. Nep. I am distracted, the widow is distressed, and we both shall run mad. Bates. A widow too! 'gad a mercy, threescore and five! Nep. But such a widow! She is now in town with her father, who wants to get her off his hands; 'tis equal to him who has her, so she is provided for-I hear somebody coming-I must away to her lodgings, where she waits for me to execute a scheme directly for our delivery. Bates. What is her name, Billy? Bates. Brady! Is not she daughter to Sir Patrick O'Neale? Nep. The same. She was sacrificed to the most senseless, drunken, profligate in the whole country. He lived to run out his fortune; and the only advantage she got from the union was, he broke that and his neck before he had broke her heart. Bates. The affair of marriage is, in this country, put upon the easiest footing; there is neither love nor hate in the matter; necessity brings them together; they are united at first for their mutual convenience, and separated ever after for their particular pleasures-O rare matrimony!--Where does she lodge? Nep. In Pall-Mall, near the hotel. Bates. I'll call in my way, and assist at the consultation; I am for a bold stroke, if gentle methods should fail. Nep. We have a plan, and a spirited one, if my sweet widow is able to go through it-pray let us have your friendly assistance-ours is the cause of love and reason. | frisks, and prances, and runs about, as if he had a new pair of legs-he has left off his brown camlet surtout, which he wore all the summer; and now, with his hat under his arm, he goes open-breasted, and he dresses, and powders, and smirks, so that you would take him for the mad Frenchman in Bedlam-something wrong in his upper story-Would you think it ?--he wants me to wear a pig-tail? Bates. Then he is far gone indeed! Tho. As sure as you are there, Mr. Bates, a pig-tail!—we have had sad work about it—I made a compromise with him to wear these ruffled shirts which he gave me; but they stand in my way-I am not so listness with them-though I have tied up my hands for him, I wont tie up my head, that I am resolute. Bates. This it is to be in love, Thomas! Tho. He may make free with himself, he sha'n't make a fool of me-he has got his head into a bag, but I wont have a pig-tail tacked to mine-and so I told him Bates. What did you tell him? Tho. That as I and my father, and his father before me, had wore their own hair as heaven had sent it, I thought myself rather too old to set up for a monkey at my time of life, and wear a pigtail-be, he, he !—he took it. Bates. With a wry face, for it was wormwood. Tho. Yes, he was frumped, and called me old blockhead, and would not speak to me the rest of the day-but the next day he was at it again-he then put me into a passion-and I could not help telling him, that I was an Englishman born, and had my prerogative as well as he; and that as long as I had breath in my body I was for liberty, and a straight head of hair. Bates. Well said, Thomas-he could not answer that. Tho. The poorest man in England is a match for the greatest, if he will but stick to the laws of the land, and the statute books, as they are de Bates. Get you gone, with your love and realivered down to us from our forefathers. son, they seldom pull together now-a-days.—I'll give your uncle a dose first, and then I'll meet you at the widow's-What says your uncle's privy counsellor, Mr. Thomas, to this? Nep. He is greatly our friend, and will enter Enter THOMAS with a pamphlet. Tho. Which is a wonder, considering how times go, Mr. Bates-they'll wear and tear me too, if I don't take care of myself; my old master has taken the nearest way to wear himself out, and all that Delong to him. Bates. Why surely this strange story about town is not true, that the old gentleman is fallen in love? Tho. Ten times worse than that! Tho. And his horns,-going to be married! Tho. You never saw such an altered man in your born days! he's grown young again; he Bates. You are right-we must lay our wits together, and drive the widow out of your old master's head, and put her into your young mas ter's hands. Tho. With all my heart-nothing can be more meritorious-marry at his years! what a terrible account would he make of it, Mr. Bates! Let me see on the debtor side sixty-five-and per contra creditor, a buxom widow of twenty-three-Hell be a bankrupt in a fortnight-he, he, he! Bates. And so he would, Mr. Thomas-what have you got in your hand? Tho. A pamphlet, my old gentleman takes inhe has left off buying histories and religious pieces by numbers, as he used to do: and since he has got this widow in his head, he reads nothing bat the Amorous Repository, Cupid's Revels, Call to Marriage, Hymen's Delights, Love lies a Bleeding, Love in the Suds, and such like tender counpositions. Bates. Here he comes, with all his folly about him. Tho. Yes, and the first fool from Vanity-fair -Heaven help us-love turns man and womanR topsy-turvy. Whit. [Without.] Where is he? where is my good friend? Enter WHITTLE. Ha here he is-give me your hand. Bates. I am glad to see you in such spirits, my Ald gentleman. Whit. Not so old neither; no man ought to be called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and life. Bates. In his senses-which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicsome in my Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don't make use of my own philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years-I have been always bantered as of too grave a cast-you know, when I studied at Lincoln's Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom. Bates. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name. Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side. [Touches his sword. Bates. A hero too! What in the name of com mon sense, is come to you, my friend!-high spi. rits, quick honour, a long sword, and a bag-you want nothing but to be terribly in love, and then you may sally forth Knight of the Woful Countenance. Ha, ha, ha! Whit. Mr. Bates-the ladies who are the best judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unless you'll be a little serious, I must beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I'll open my mind to some more attentive friend. Bates. Well, come, unlock then, you wild, handsome, vigorous, young dog you- -I will please you if I can. Whit. I believe you never saw me look better, Frank, did you? Bates. O yes, rather better forty years ago. Whit. What, when I was at Merchant Tai-I lors' School? Bates. At Lincoln's Inn, Tom. Whit. It can't be-l never disguise my age, and next February I shall be fifty-four. Bates. Fifty-four! why I am sixty, and you always licked me at school-though I believe I could do as much for you now, and ecod I believe you deserve it too. Whit. I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year. Bates. O, you are-let me see-we were together at Cambridge, Anno Domini twenty-five, which is near fifty years ago-you came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young; and, what is more surprising, by this calculation you went to school before you was born-you was always a forward child. Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humour; and so, Mr. Bates, when you are in temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with you. Bates. Fare you well, my old boy-young fellow, I mean-when you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses; when you have half killed yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and galoches, I am at your service again. So, bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four-ha, ha! [Exit. Whit. He has certainly heard of my affair-but he is old and peevish-he wants spirits and strength of constitution to conceive my happiness -I am in love with the widow, and must have her every man knows his own wants-let the world laugh, and my friends stare! let 'em call me imprudent, and mad, if they please-I live in good times, and among people of fashion; so none of my neighbours, thank Heaven, can have the assurance to laugh at me. Enter KECKSey. Keck. What, my friend Whittle! joy, joy! to fine widow has bid for you, and will have youyou, old boy-you are going, a going, a going! a hah, friend? all for the best-there is nothing like it-hugh, hugh, hugh!—a good wife is a good thing, and a young one is a better-hah-who's afraid? If I had not lately married one, I should have been at death's door by this time-hugh, hugh, hugh! Whit. Thank, thank you, friend! I was coming to advise with you-I am got into the pond faith; and there's no love lost between us. Am Í again-in love up to the ears a fine woman, right, friend? Keck. Right! ay, right as my leg, Tom! Life's nothing without love-hugh, hugh! I am happy as the day 's long! my wife loves gadding, and I can't stay at home; so we are both of a mindshe's every night at one or other of the gay places; but among friends, I am a little afraid of the damp; hugh, hugh she has got an Irish gentleman, a kind of cousin of hers, to take care of her; a fine fort to have such a friend in a family! Hugb, fellow; and so good-natured-It is a vast comhugh, hugh! Whit. You are a bold man, cousin Kecksey. Keck. Bold! ay, to be sure; none but the brave deserves the fair-Hugh, hugh! who's afraid? Whit. Why your wife is five feet ten. Keck. Without her shoes. I hate your little shrimps; none of your lean, meagre figures for me; was always fond of the majestic: give me a slice of a good English surloin; cut and come again; hugh, hugh! that's my taste. And so you would advise ne to marry the widow Whit. I'm glad you have so good a stomach. directly? Keck. To be sure you have not a moment to When a man is in his prime. Whit. You have an ugly cough, cousin. Whit. You have raised me from the dead-I ara glad you came-Frank Bates had almost killed me with his jokes-but you have comforted me, and we will walk through the park; and I will carry you to the widow in Pall-mall. and Keck. With all my heart-I'll raise her spirits, yours too-courage, Tom-come along-who's afraid? [Exeunt. SCENE II-The Widow's Lodging. Enter WIDOW, NEPHEW, and BATES. Bates. Indeed, Madam, there is no other way but to cast off your real character, and assume a feigned one; it is an extraordinary occasion, and requires extraordinary measures; pluck up a spirit, and do it for the honour of your sex. Nep. Only consider, my sweet widow, that our all is at stake. Wid. Could I bring my heart to act contrary to its feelings, would not you hate me for being a hypocrite, though it is done for your sake? Nep. Could I think myself capable of such ingratitude Bates. Huzza! huzza! Wid. Could we live upon affection, I would give your fortune to your uncle, and thank him for taking it; and then— Nep. What then, my sweet widow? Wid. I would desire you to run away with me as fast as you can.-What a pity it is that this money, which my heart despises, should hinder its happiness, or that, for the want of a few dirty acres, a poor woman must be made miserable, and sacrificed twice to those who have them. Nep. Heaven forbid ! these exquisite sentiments endear you more to me, and distract me with the dread of losing you. Bates. Young folks, let an old man, who is not quite in love, and yet will admire a fine woman to the day of his death, throw in a little advice among your flames and darts. Wid. Though a woman, a widow, and in love too, I can hear reason, Mr. Bates. Bates. And that's a wonder-you have no time to lose; for want of a jointure you are still your father's slave; he is obstinate, and has promised you to the old man: now, Madam, if you will not rise superior to your sex's weakness, to secure a young fellow instead of an old one, your eyes are a couple of hypocrites. Wid. They are a couple of traitors, I'm sure, and have led their mistress into a toil, from which all her wit cannot release her. Nep. But it can, if you will but exert it; my uncle adored and fell in love with you for your beauty, softness, and almost speechless reserve. Now, if amidst all his rapturous ideas of your delicacy, you would bounce upon him a wild, ranting, buxom widow, he will grow sick of his bar gain, and give me a fortune to take you off his hands. Wid. I shall make a very bad actress. Nep. You are an excellent mimic; assume but the character of your Irish female neighbour in the country, with which you astonished us so agreeably at Scarborough; you will frighten my uncle into terms, and do that for us which neither my love nor your virtue can accomplish without it. Wid. Now for a trial [Mimicking a strong brogue.] Fait and trot, if you will be after bringing me before the old jontleman, if he loves music, I will trate his ears with a little of the brogue, and some dancing too into the bargain if he loves capering-O bless me! my heart fails me, and I am frightened out of my wits; I can never go through [NEP. and BATES both laugh. Nep. [Kneeling and kissing her hand.] O, 'tis admirable! Love himself inspires you, and we shall conquer; what say you, Mr. Bates? it. Bates. I'll insure you success; I can scarce believe my own ears; such a tongue and a brogue would make Hercules tremble at five-and-twenty; but, away, away, and give him a broadside in the Park; there you'll find him hobbling with that old cuckold, Kecksey. Wid. But will my dress suit the character I play. Nep. The very thing; is your retinue ready, and your part got by heart? Wid. All is ready: 'tis an act of despair to punish folly, and reward merit: 'tis the last effort of pure, honourable love: and if every woman would exert the same spirit for the same out-of-fashion rarity, there would be less business for Doctors'oommons. Now let the critics laugh at me if they lare. [Exit, with spirit. Nep Brava! bravissima! sweet widow! [Exit. SCENE III-The Park. Enter WHITTLE and KECKSEY. (Erit Whit. Yes, yes, she is Irish, but so modest, se mild, and so tender, and just enough of the accent to give a peculiar sweetness to her words, which drop from her in monosyllables, with such a delicate reserve, that I shall have all the comfort without the impertinence, of a wife. Keck. There our taste differs, friend; I am for a lively, smart girl in my house, hugh, hugh! to keep up my spirits, and make me merry; I don't admire dumb waiters, not I, no still life for me; I love the prittle prattle, it sets me to sleep, and I can take a sound nap, while my Sally and her cousin are running and playing about the house like young cats. Whit. I am for no cats in my house; I cannot sleep with a noise; the widow was made on purpose for me; she is so bashful, has no acquaintance, and she never would stir out of doors if her friends were not afraid of a consumption, and force her into the air. Such a delicate creature! you shall see her; you were always for a tall, chat- Keck. I don't care for your sayings-who's afraid? Whit. There goes Bates, let us avoid him, he will only be joking with us; when I have taken a serious thing into my head, I can't bear to have it laughed out again. This way, friend KeckseyWhat have we got here? Keck. [Looking out.] Some fine prancing wench, with her lovers and footmen about her; she's a gay one by her motions. Whit. Were she not so flaunting, I should take it for-No, it is impossible; and yet is not that my nephew with her? I forbade him speaking to her; it can't be the widow; I hope it is not. Enter WIDOW, followed by NEPHEW, three Wid. Don't bother me, young man, with your darts, your Cupids, and your pangs; if you had half of 'em about you that you swear you have, they would have cured you, by killing you long ago. Would you have me faitless to your uncle, hah! young man? Was not I faitful to you, till I was ordered to be faitful to him? But I must know more of your English ways, and live mon among the English ladies, to learn how to be fait ful to two at a time-and so there's my answer for you. Nep. Then I know my relief, for I cannot live without you. [Erit Wid. Take what relief you plase, young jontle man; what have I to do with dat? He is certainly mad, or out of his sinses, for he swears he can't live without me, and yet he talks of killing him self! How does he make out dat? If a country. man of mine had made such a blunder, they would have put it into all the newspapers, and Faul ner's Journal beside; but an Englishman may look over the hedge, while an Irishman must not stale a horse. Keck. Is this the widow, friend Whittle? not. Whit. I don't know, [Sighing.] it is, and it is Wid. Your servant, Mr. Whittol; I wish you would spake to your nephew not to be whining and dangling after me all day in his green coat. It is not for my reputation that he should follow me about like a beggar-man, and ask me for what I had given him along ago, but have since bestowed upon you, Mr. Whittol. Whit. He is an impudent beggar, and shall be really so, for his disobedience. Wid. As he can't live without me, you know, it will be charity to starve him: I wish the poor young man dead with all my heart, as he thinks it will do him a great dale of good. Keck. [To WHITTLE.] She is tender, indeed! and I think she has the brogue a little-hugh, hugh! sey! Whit. 'Tis stronger to-day than ever I heard it. [Staring. Wid. And are you now talking of my brogue? It is always the most fullest when the wind is aesterly; it has the same effect upon me, as upon stammering people-they can't spake for their impediment, and my tongue is fixed so loose in my mouth I can't stop it for the life of me. Whit. What a terrible misfortune, friend KeckKeck. Not at all; the more tongue the better, Wid. When the wind changes, I have no brogue at all, at all. But come, Mr. Whittol, don't let us be vulgar, and talk of our poor relations. It is impossible to be in this metropolis of London, and have any thought but of operas, plays, masquerades, and pantaons, to keep up one's spirits in the winter; and Vauxhall fire-works to cool and refresh one in the summer.-La, la, la! [Sings. Whit. I protest, she puts me into a sweat; we shall have a mob about us. say I Keck. The more the merrier, I say who's afraid? Wid. How the people stare! as if they never saw a woman's voice before; but my vivacity has got the better of my good manners. This, I suppose, this strange gentleman is a near friend and relation, and as such, notwithstanding his apparance, I shall always trate him, though I might dislike him upon a nearer acquaintance. Keck. Madam, you do me honour; I like your frankness, and I like your person, and I envy my friend Whittle; and if you were not engaged, and I were not married, I would endeavour to make myself agreeable to you, that I would--hugh, hugh! Wid. And, indeed, Sir, it would be very agraable to me; for if I did hate you as much as I did my first dare husband, I should always have the comfort, that in all human probability my torments would not last long. Keck. She utters something more than monosyllables, friend; this is better than bargain: she has a fine bold way of talking. Whit. More bold than welcome! I am struck all of a heap. Wid. What, are you low-spirited, my dare Mr. Whittol? When you were at Scarborough, and winning my affections, you were all mirth and gayety and now you have won me, you are as thoughtful about it as if we had been married some time. Whit. Indeed, Madam, I can't but say I am a little thoughtful--we take it by turns; you were VOL. I....4 H very sorrowful a month ago for the loss of your husband, and that you could dry up your tears so soon, naturally makes me a little thoughtful. Wid. Indeed I could dry up my tears for a dozen husbands, when I was sure of having a tirteenth like Mr. Whittol; that's very natural sure both in England and Dublin too. Keck. She wont die of a consumption; she nas a fine full-toned voice, and you'll be very happy, Tom-Hugh, hugh! Whit. O, yes, very happy. Wid. But come, don't let us be melancholy before the time; I am sure I have been moped up for a year and a half-I was obliged to mourn for my first husband, that I might be sure of a second; and my father kept my spirits in subjection, as the best recipe (he said) for changing a widow into a wife; but now I have my arms and legs at liberty, I must and will have my swing: now I am out of my cage, I could dance two nights together, and a day too, like any singing bird; and I'm in such spirits that I have got rid of my father, I could fly over the moon without wings, and back again, before dinner. Bless my eyes, and don't I see there Miss Nancy O'Flarty, and her brother, Captain O'Flarty? He was one of my dying Strephons at Scarborough--I have a very grate regard for him, and must make him a little miserable with my happiness. [Courtesies.] Come along, skips, [To the servants.] don't you be gostring there; show your liveries, and bow to your master that is to be, and to his friend, and hold up your heads, and trip after me as lightly as if you had no legs to your feet. I shall be with you again, jontlemen, in the crack of a fan--O, I'll have a husband, ay, marry. [Exit singing, followed by Footmen Keck. A fine buxom widow, faith! no acquaint ance--delicate reserve-mopes at home--forced into the air-inclined to a consumption.-What a description you gave of your wife! Why, she beats my Sally, Tom. Whit. Yes, and she'll beat me if I don't take care! What a change is here! I must turn about, or this will turn my head. Dance for two nights together, and leap over the moon! you shal! dance and leap by yourself, that I am resolved. Keck. Here she comes again; it does my heart good to see her-you are in luck, Tom. Whit. I'd give a finger to be out of such luck. Re-enter WIDOW, &c. Wid. Ha, ha, ha! the poor captain is marched off in a fury. He can't bear to hear that the town has capitulated to you, Mr. Whittol. I have promised to introduce him to you. He will make one of my danglers to take a little exercise with me, when you take your nap in the afternoon. Whit. You sha'n't catch me napping, I assure you. What a discovery and escape I have made! I tremble with the thought of my danger! [Aside. Keck. I protest, cousin, there goes my wife, and her friend, Mr. Mac Brawn. What a fine stately couple they are! I must after 'em, and have a laugh with them-now they giggle and walk quick, that I mayn't overtake 'em. Madam, your servant. You're a happy man, Tom. Keep up your spirits, old boy. Hugh, hugh!-Who's afraid? [Exit. Wid. I know Mr. Mac Brawn extremely well he was very intimate at our house, in my first husband's time; a great comfort he was to me to Whit. What a delivery! a reprieve before the Whit. I hope never to give you that trouble, Madam. Wid. No trouble at all, at all; I assure you, Sir, from my soul, that I shall take great delight in the occasion. Whit. Indeed, Madam, I believe it. Wid. I don't care how soon, the sooner the better; and the more danger the more honour; I spake from my heart. Whit. And so do I from mine, Madam. [Sighs. Wid. But don't let us think of future pleasure, and neglect the present satisfaction. My mantua-maker is waiting for me to choose my clothes, in which I shall forget the sorrows of Mrs. Brady, in the joys of Mrs. Whittol. Though I have no fortune myself, I shall bring a tolerable one to you, in debts, Mr. Whittol, and which I will pay you tinfold in tenderness; your deep purse, and my open heart, will make us the envy of the little grate ones, and the grate little ones; the people of quality with no souls, and grate souls with no cash at all. I hope you'll meet me at the Pantaon this evening. Lady Rantiton and her daughter, Miss Nettledown, and Nancy Tittup, with half a dozen macaroonies, and two savoury vivers, are to take me there, and we propose a grate deal of chat and merriment, and dancing all night, and all other kind of recreations. I am quite another kind of a crater, now I am a bird in the fields; I can junket about a week together; I have a fine constitution, and am never molested with your nasty vapours; are you ever troubled with vapours, Mr. Whittol? Whit. A little, now and then, Madam. Wid. I'll rattle 'em away like smoke! there are no vapours where I come; I hate your dumps, and your nerves, and your megrims; and I had much rather break your rest with a little racketting, than let any thing get into your head that should not be there, Mr. Whittol. Whit. I will take care that nothing shall be in my head, but what ought to be there. What a deliverance! [Aside. Wid. [Looking at her watch.] Bless me! how the hours of the clock creep away when we are plosed with our company: but I must lave you, for there are half a hundred people waiting for me to pick your pocket, Mr. Whittol; and there is my own brother, lieutenant O'Neale, is to arrive this morning, and he is so like me you would not know us asunder when we are together; you will be very fond of him, poor lad! he lives by his wits, as you do by your fortune, and so you may assist one another. Mr. Whittol, your obadient, till we meet at the Pantaon. Follow me, Pompey; and, skips, do you follow him. Pomp. The Baccararo whiteman not let blacky boy go first after you, Missis, they pull and pinch me. Foot. It is a shame, your ladyship, that a black negro should take place of English Christianswe can't follow him, indeed. Wid. Then you may follow one another out of my sarvice; if you follow me, you shall follow him, for he shall go before me; therefore, resiga as fast as you plase; you sha'n't oppose government and keep your places too, that is not good politics in England or Ireland either; so come along, Pompey, be after going before me.- Mr. Whittol, most tenderly yours. [Exeunt WIDOW and attendants. Whit. Most tenderly yours! [Mimicks her.] 'Ecod, I believe you are, and any body's else, O. what an escape have I had! But how shall I clear myself of this business? I'll serve her as I would bad money, put her off into other hands: my nephew is fool enough to be in love with her, and if give him a fortune he'll take the good and the bad together-he shall do so or starve. I'll send for Bates directly, confess my folly, ask his pardon, send him to my nephew, write and de dare off with the widow, and so get rid of her tinderness as fast as I can. [Brit ACT II. SCENE I-A Room in WHITTLE'S House. Enter BATES and WHITTLE. Whit. Well, Mr. Bates, have you talked with my nephew; is not he overjoyed at the proposal? Bates. The demon of discord has been among you, and has untuned the whole family; you have screwed him too high; the young man is out of his senses, I think; he stares, mopes about, and sighs; looks at me indeed, but gives very absurd answers; I don't like him. Whit. What is the matter, think you? Bates. What I have always expected; there is a crack in your family, and you take it by turns! you have had it, and now transfer it to your ne phew; which, to your shame be it spoken, is the only transfer you have ever made him. Whit. But, am I not going to do him more than justice? Bates. As you have done him much less than justice hitherto, you can't begin too soon. Whit. Am not I going to give him the lady be likes, and which I was going to marry myself? Bates. Yes; that is, you are taking a perpetual blister off your own back, to clap it upon his What a tender uncle you are! Whit. But you don't consider the estate which I shall give him. Bates. Restore to him, you mean 'tis his own, and you should have given it up long ago: you must do more, or old Nick will have you; your nephew wont take the widow off your hands without a fortune: throw him ten thousand into the bargain. Whit. Indeed but I sha'n't; he shall run mad, and I'll marry her myself rather than do that. |